One Last Smoke
by R. Scott
Summary: He ran a shaky hand through his hair and let out a deep long sigh, willing himself not to look at her, because if he did, he knew he’d be sinking again and this time would have no hope of resurfacing. Chandler/Rachel.


A/N: Hi. This is just a short Chandler/Rachel oneshot I came up with recently, hope you enjoy. To anyone who is reading my 'Lost' story 'My Forgotten Shadow'- the following chapter should be up shortly, thanks so much for bearing with me.

Enjoy :o)

**This story contains strong language. **

* * *

Naturally, the first thought that struck him when he woke was that he desperately needed a cigarette. His cravings for one since he had 'quit' again last month had never before been this agonizingly acute- he felt as though he could scratch out his own eyes and tear out his hair. This was the worst moment of them all, the one time he would do anything, anything, just to smoke. To fill his soul with that sweet, lasting dark matter. The pure longing in him was incredible. It was horrible. 

In the heavy darkness, he blindly reached out to the nightstand and fumbled in the top drawer- and let out a groan when he realised that it wasn't in fact his nightstand, which meant of course there were no smokes in there. Not one. He slammed the drawer closed with his fist, then flinched when the thud caused the person lying next to him to stir.

She didn't wake though. She was a worryingly heavy sleeper. And a clingy one. She had somehow managed to wrap her small frame around his, twisted so that he could barely lift his arm. This strange, isolated little hollow they had created for themselves, consisting of limbs and bedsheets, was suddenly suffocating to him. The dank smell of sweat and her perfume was overpowering, somehow sealing him in this morbid world of him and her, this twisted thing between them. This was usually the point where he got up and left, swiftly dressing, maybe stealing some food, trying to be silent as he slipped out so as not to wake her roommate. But it was too early…or late. Dark. It didn't matter what time it was, because he was tired and he didn't feel like leaving.

He never really felt like leaving, he only felt like he had to.

His eyes heavy, he glanced at her from his position on his back. Her lips slightly parted, every few seconds she let out a short, sleepy breath which blew strands of her honey coloured hair away from her. Her eyelids were drowned in dark make-up, unusually, smudged heavily under her eyelashes, and her whole being looked unnatural in the little moonlight that had somehow seeped through the blinds. She didn't look real…just some broken, carbon copy of the woman he'd known for ten years. Maybe this was who she really was, and only he could see it. Mildly disturbed by the thought, he sat up in the bed, the sight of her making him feel ill, the thoughts in his head clawing away at him like parasites.

This was it, he found himself vowing. The last time. No more.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair and let out a deep long sigh, willing himself not to look at her, because if he did, he knew he'd be sinking again and this time would have no hope of resurfacing.

His breathing suddenly ragged, he pressed his thumb and finger violently to the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.

"I hate you…" he whispered. To her. To himself.

To Ross.

As he moved to get up, he was suddenly shocked when she threw an arm sleepily around his waist, by no means securing him in his position, but freezing him in place all the same. The movement caused him to look back at her, and her eyes were now open slightly…she was gazing up at him through dark, haunting slits.

"I'm sorry." She whispered. He felt his heart thud to a stop in his chest.

"What?"

She wouldn't remember this when she woke fully, he realised. She would forget she'd ever uttered a word, in that perfect, melodic voice of hers, and she would continue in her life; the life she seemed to view as some sort of game, climbing ladders to reach impossible heights, then suddenly sliding back down, dragging him with her, leaving him there as she continued her track, a crumpled heap at her feet.

She'd moved further towards him slightly, and had placed a hand on his jaw, which he held there, firmly clinging on to her wrist, already lost, thoughts of leaving her instantly vanishing.

"I'm_ sorry…_" she said again, her eyes, though tired, glistening with what he presumed were tears.

He hoped they were tears. Better she cry than he did.

"You don't deserve this…" she continued, sitting up beside him now, pulling him towards her.

"Stop it." He hissed, closing his eyes, trying to push her away, his efforts futile. "Please just stop."

She was silently crying now and the sight made him physically sick, part of him wanting to kiss away her tears and another reveling in her misery. She was drunk, he painfully reminded himself. She was always drunk.

"You deserve someone so much better than me…" she sobbed quietly. Something inside him shattered.

"But I want _you_." He said, disgusted by the weakness in his voice but too miserable to care. He could already feel his throat aching and his eyes stinging and he willed it down.

What a mess. What a _fucking mess._

She simply stared at him sadly, her thumbs grazing his face, and she looked as though she were struggling to keep her eyes open.

"Rach, I- "

"You should leave…" she sighed, cutting him off almost reluctantly, but he felt a fool for thinking she would want him to stay. He felt a fool all the time these days, a fool for allowing himself to get tangled up in this sick, twisted net.

Slowly, he began to pull away, but not before she kissed him slowly, agonizingly, _wonderfully_, making this ordeal all the more painful. Her eyes closed, she lay back down on her side.

Never again. _Never again._

He prayed to a God he didn't believe in that he would keep that promise this time.

He awkwardly climbed into his jeans and pulled on his shirt, letting out a long, tired breath. As he looked back at her, she was already falling asleep again.

Silently, he left her room and padded through the apartment, across the hall, and back home.

Joey was up.

"Where have_ you_ been?" he asked. Not accusing, not irritating. Just concerned.

Chandler hated the fact that his pain was apparently written all over his face, and gazed at him coldly.

"Out." He said, wanting to leave it at that.

Joey looked at him for a moment, taking in his crumpled shirt and dark eyes, before nodding and returning to his room.

Chandler quickly searched through the kitchen drawers and finally found a cigarette.

It wasn't satisfying.


End file.
